Happy Fourth of July!

Happy Fourth of July, guys! If you're American, at least. If you're not, well, happy Tuesday. Either way, there's cause to celebrate.

How've you been doing? We're smack dab in the middle of summer now, so I hope you're enjoying yourself! I for one have had tons of time to write, so you can look for tons of new posts soon.

To be fully honest, I'm just popping in because I wanted to share this awesome fireworks simulation I made with Javascript. It was a fun little project, so I hope you enjoy it. Other than that, I'll be posting my regular content on the weekend.

Happy Fourth of July!



If you're curious, by the way, this program was made in p5.js, which is a Javascript library. I'm sharing it with y'all using OpenProcessing, a website that provides embeddable code to put into blog posts such as these. You can view the source code for the program by clicking on the icon in the code window.

The Telephone

Ring and ding and ding and ring

The telephone still rings

I reach across and shut it off

The telephone still rings

I grab my bike and speed away

The wind caught in my hair

The cops they race across the road

I don't think I really care

I make across the winding path

The telephone still rings

I fly across the barren fields

Doing all the things

Ring and ding and ding and ring

The telephone still rings

I reach across and toss it off

The telephone still rings

Chatter, clatter, sing and tatter

They don't have to pick my bone

Yammer, stammer, kill and hammer

Just pick up the screaming phone

Calling Myself

They called me in the night

They asked me if I could come

I told them I had never seen

The places where they're hiding away

So they let me see the day

And I kissed the sinning earth

And I lived in peace

I waited for it to end

And so they called me in the night

Dirty bottles washed in rum

They asked me where I'd been

They held me till the yonder dawn

My heart and my clothes long gone

Fleeing to my flaming hearth

And so I lay in the grease

I waited for it to end

And then the morning sun, she rose

And I ran for bitter life

I ran to those memories

And I laughed and I cried

And I sung and I tried

To make me a better man

Than the nightly shit

I waited for it to end

And when the next sun grows

I know where I'll find the knife

But I can't afford the fees

For living and for dying

Growing and denying

I know where I ran

And there I'll sit

Waiting for it to end

Your Opinions Should Be Like Your Clothes

Your opinions should be like your clothes.

No, I'm not joking.

Yes, I will now explain.

These days, I've noticed a fundamental problem with the nature of discourse, especially political discourse and the incessant misinformation of online mass media (some might argue that this problem has always existed, but that's a conversation for another day). As problems go, it's pretty big. Pretty problematic, one might even say. You see, my friends, the trouble lies with opinions. In particular, how people associate themselves with their opinions so strongly that whenever said opinions are rightly questioned, people feel like someone is attacking their very identity. The moment this happens, a civil, constructive debate is virtually impossible.

Of course, I don't claim to offer a solution. But as a writer, what I can offer is an analogy. A very good analogy, in fact, that can be taken very far in interpretation. You've probably already guessed what it is by the title of this post.

Your opinions, dear readers, should be like your clothes.

Whenever you go out to buy new clothes, you know that they aren't going to last forever. Like most things in life, they have a limited lifespan. Now, either you can be smart and start to replace your clothes as soon as you start to see them fade, or you can be stubborn, and hang on to them for years, until they start to fall apart, and you have no option but to replace them. And yet you could still be stubborn, and hold on to your opinions (ahem, clothes) until they've literally been reduced to tatters, and you're pretty much walking around in the harsh, cold weather with nothing but rags covering up your body. Now, if you're out and about and you see someone like this, with holes and tears riddling their entire attire, the decent thing to do is at least tell them about it. "Excuse me! Good sir/madam! I hate to interrupt your fine evening, but, uh, your clothes are quite torn. You might want to do something about that. Rather strange, considering that fancy car you're driving."

Now imagine you're on the other side. If some random stranger says this to you, what would be your response? If you're sane, you'd probably be like "Oh dear! Why, random but remarkably kind stranger, I do believe you're right. I really should buy some new clothes."

And that would be that.

Of course, if you're sane you probably wouldn't find yourself in that situation to begin with, which is exactly my point. If you can afford new clothes, you're not gonna walk around in tatters! No, if you can afford new clothes, you buy new clothes. As soon as it's needed. Maybe you wait for a sale or something, but you do it. The clothes you wear aren't an integral part of your identity or your self-worth, they're just clothes. You might have some sentimental attachment to them, you might like them a lot, and sure, they might be how the whole world judges you, but in the end, they're simply clothes. In fact, even if your wardrobe is an essential part of who you are, you'd still probably want to replace it as soon as possible. Nobody likes wearing a torn attire.

Do you see where I'm going with this? Treat your opinions just as you would treat your clothes. Replace them as soon as needed, don't let them fade and tear, and more importantly, don't associate them with your identity so strongly that you can't let them go. Realize that just like your clothes, you probably don't want to be seen out with holes in your opinions. And finally, if you do happen to find someone with an old, torn, out-of-fashion opinion, tell them about it. Be helpful. Be nice. And if you start to see them get defensive, remind them that quite on the contrary with what they're doing, if they value their opinions, they should probably get around to replacing them as soon as needed. Otherwise, they're just embarrassing themselves.

That's all I have for you today, my friends. Just some thoughts for you to ponder over and possibly consider the next time you're debating someone, whether it be online or in real life. Let me know what you thought in the comments! And as always, thanks for reading.

Much Ado About Something - Chapter One - An Awful Hullaballoo

“Did you know,” said the Tentacle, stroking his beard and staring intently at the delicate skin of the bright orange fruit, “That bananas used to be yellow before the fifty-second century?”

“Outrageous,” said the Ear.

“Outlandish,” cried the Newt.

“Unheard of,” quacked the Frog.

“Ribbet,” said the Duck.

And the Eye just stared at them all and rolled his eye in its socket. What he was thinking of was highly disturbing, but as Eyes are often puzzling beings, perhaps it is better to leave those things unsaid. It was then, as then was a particularly interesting moment, the Clock chimed ten and gave everyone a cry of delight.
.
“Time for second breakfast!” cried the Newt. “I must say the Clock is behaving rather queer.”

And he was right too, for the Clock was shaking on the mantelpiece, looking quite excited and tick-tocking a rather too hard. The Frog quacked thoughtfully. The Ear jumped up and down on the Duck’s new tablecloth.

“Well!” demanded the Italic. “Look at the time! We must get going. Everyone, would you please tell us what you think and oh dear, for goodness sake please wash those dishes in the back!”

“I say the Italic calm down,” suggested the Ear. “What do you say?”

Everyone’s hands went up in the air. Except for the Eye, who did not have a hand, and contented himself with rolling his eye for the twelfth time that day. Behind them, the Noodle poked her head through the door and squawked crossly.

“Oh, would anyone please put the tick back in the tock!”

The Frog quacked in agreement, and the Ear nodded vigorously. The Eye simply stared at them all. "Perhaps," said the Tentacle, still stroking his beard, "It would be pragmatic to remove Clock's tick, and replace it with a new one." The Noodle huffed irritably and slammed the door shut, which creaked apologetically on its rusted hinges. After all, the Tentacle posed a very sensible suggestion, so sensible in fact, that everyone was instantly disinclined toward it. "What bollocks!" cried the Newt. "Let us return to food. I'm hungry! It's been almost ten minutes since we last ate. The Clock will sort himself out. I heard he was having very distressing dreams last night, and I'd say that he's just been frightened, is all."

"That makes no sense," said the Tentacle. "Last time the Clock behaved strangely, there was nobody to wake us up in the morning and we lost two months of our lives. I say we act now. Duck, what do you think?"

But unfortunately, we will never know what she thought, because at that precise moment the Clock gave a strangled screech and died out entirely. This was so utterly unprecedented that the Duck croaked alarmedly and toppled over on her tablecloth. The Newt screamed. The Ear flinched. The Frog quacked. The Eye widened its eye. For the longest time, they all just stood there, rooted in their individual positions, until the Tentacle finally dared to whisper through the silence.

"Oh dear."

"Well, now what do we do?" cried the Newt, gesticulating wildly and clutching the watery Eye in terror. "There is nothing to do!" cried the Ear,  "We are dead! Oh, tarnation! Oh, sweet, sweet, tarnation! Oh, pray to the Lord! Pray to the kind Lord!" And so he collapsed on the floor in tears. The Eye tried to comfort him, but sadly he too had begun to cry in distress. This was unfortunate, because when the Eye cried it did make quite a mess. His tears were rather large, after all. "My God!" said the Tentacle, staring at the two with disgust. "Look at yourselves! Do you have no shame? This situation can be remedied yet." The Duck, who was perhaps the most optimistic of then all, straightened herself and croaked in agreement. "Ribbet, ribbet ribbet. Ribbet!"

"Yeah, the Duck is right," quacked the Frog, helping the Ear off the floor and patting him on the back. "We kinfolk must stick together in times like this." There was a cry of agreement. "We must call a meeting!" declared the Tentacle. "Today's turn of events has been quite frightening. We must assemble and decide the next course of action." "Hear, hear!" cried everyone. "Ear, ear!" cried the Ear.

And so they all gathered around and started discussing a plan. There were quite a lot of differing opinions on what to do, but after a quite some chattering, quite some yammering, and a little bit of tattering, everyone finally agreed on the solution to what was turning out to be quite a frightful dilemma. "We must procure a battery!" cried the Tentacle, and everyone nodded. Except for the Eye, who unfortunately didn't have a head. The Newt seemed to be confused. "What in the name of tarts is a battery?" he demanded, looking bewildered. "It's one them things that powers them electrical doodads," quacked the Frog. The Tentacle nodded, stroking his beard and appearing ever so wise. "Well, then," snapped the Newt, "I don't see any of you with a battery! Where do you plan to obtain one?"

"That," replied the Tentacle, "Is actually a fantastic question. I have no clue." The Newt snorted. "Well, it's not like somebody is just going to come barging into our house with one of them!"

But unfortunately, our dear friend the Newt was about to be proven wrong yet again, for at that very moment, the door smashed open with a sigh and the Noodle charged in, huffing and puffing and overall in a generally disagreeable state. In his arms was a giant metal cylinder, covered with constantly turning dials and knobs. "It's a battery!" cried the Tentacle in triumph. Everyone oohed and ahhed. This really was quite impressive.

And a bit convenient too, sadly. But hey, don't look at me. I didn't make this stuff up, right?

_________________________

Boy, I haven't had that much fun with a story in a long time. This particular piece was something I wrote a couple years back, and only recently found among the chaos that is my Google Drive. It was short, unfinished, and barely even fleshed out, but as soon as I read the first few paragraphs, I realized I simply had to turn it into something bigger—and that's exactly what I plan to do! As always, let me know what you think in the comments below (or tweet me @starlightjason2). I've never written anything like this before, so I'd really appreciate your feedback. Does it work? Does it not work? Should I continue it? And if so, where do you want to see these characters go? I look forward to seeing your thoughts!

My World - Chapter One - Ground

This is my prison; I was born here. For what, I don't know. Raised by machines in a stone castle vast and unforeseen, an empty binding to the cosmos indifferent, they have fed me, clothed me, washed me, and nursed me. Not people, not sentient in any morbid sense of the word, for they are not alive, and yet intelligent enough to know they are not alive, but that they are hollow men not quite so different from me; they see the world not through consciousness but through hard, floating numbers that govern their actions that they don't know they make. Emotionless faces, hollow eyes—that is who they are. They are not sentient in any morbid sense of the word, but I yearn to join them, for they are all that I know, and I envy their satisfaction. Yes, these are the machines that raised me in a world void of others like me, a world made of stone, marble, and mud.

"Where am I?" I would ask them, and they would reply, "Nowhere."

"Where is nowhere?" I would ask them, and they would reply, "Everywhere."

So, by and by, my questions turned to mediocrity and I raised life into my own flock, for otherwise, it leads me where I know not. And yet through ignorance, my curiosity returned, and I asked, "Why did you give me speech if you don't want me to use it?"

And so they’d answer, "We didn't give you speech, for it was within you, given by your parents and their parents before them, and we have merely brought out in you what you cannot bring out in yourself."

"Who are my parents, then, and from whence did they bring me?"

"They are dead, and they brought you from the dead, so that you will live, to someday return to death."

I didn't understand this, and so as I grew older, I began to explore. This was good, for before long I discovered that my home was large beyond comprehension, with overgrown thickets, vast carpeted rooms connected by empty corridors and hallways, and abandoned mine shafts lit by cracked bulbs in the stone ceiling. An abandoned bastion, made of dusty marble and rusting metal, supported by broken rock that threatened to crumble at any moment. I found room after room, chamber after chamber, opening after opening, all connecting in a vast labyrinth that was this castle. I found bugs crawling on the torn carpets, nesting and breeding in a constant state of rebellion against the arid loneliness pervading their home. I found machines, not like the ones that fostered me, but even stranger, like mechanical boxes the size of entire rooms, purring all day long in a strange language I couldn't understand, imploring each other to do strange things I didn't want to understand. Whenever I'd approach them,  their workings would go silent, waiting patiently for me to leave so that they could start back up again. Once one of them even grabbed me with its wires, and strangled me in a grid tight like iron, clutching me so tight my neck would be red for weeks—when I finally wrestled myself free, I vowed never to approach the things again. Later I'd convince myself that I'd imagined the whole experience, but I knew in the dark recesses of my minds that it must be true. Nevertheless, from then on, I stayed away from that part of the castle. I moved on, only to find even more unanswered questions—elaborate astrolabes, broken timepieces, stark needles covered with what I could only hope was rust. I tried to ignore what I didn’t want to remember.

But it was not all darkness. One of my favorite rooms was the library, with thousands of dusty books resting on colossal shelves that stretched upward into the sky, surrounding me with sweet, sweet knowledge. It was here I learned it was the sun, not the earth, that was the center of the solar system, as the machines had previously taught me. I learned of the arts and the sciences, and read of tales from times long gone, times when there were no machines, and the world was populated with real people. And yet not a single text I came across told me anything about this place, and what it was. Once I came so close—a text from a millennia-old manuscript talked of a dead castle made of marble, one that bore an eerie resemblance to my home. This was a holy manuscript, and one that had born much meaning to the people that once lived in this land. It spoke of God, and Jesus, and sin—but what good was this to me? It was the stuff of fantasy and fiction, not the stark, harsh reality I confronted. A curdled mystery, and all I had for answers were the machines.

But the machines were no better. I didn't trust them anymore. Whenever I confronted them, they'd do nothing but posit nonsensical answers. Nothing they said made sense. Was I simply stupid? Possible. Only when I asked them about the mechanical boxes did they show any emotion at all, warning me that if I inquired further into their purpose I might just find out. I knew now that the machines had a dark side, so I relented. I didn't mind death, but I couldn't bear leaving this world before I had my answers. No, I must find my answers.

Days passed, then weeks, then years. Centuries might have gone by, and I would have been indifferent. Each hour of exploration brought me absolutely nothing other than questions. Where did I come from? Where did the machines come from? Why was there a forest at the edge of the castle? And why was it so silent? Forests are supposed to be teeming with life, and yet aside from the occasional insect, there was nothing to be found there except trees. And why was it that whenever I tried to venture beyond the forest, I somehow always ended up going in a circle? I knew the world was round, but surely it couldn't have been so small. Could it? I doubted the machines now. They never had my trust, but now they had my suspicion. Why must they lie to me? Was it normal? Once I stayed out there for a whole week, determined to find something interesting if it meant the end of me. I let the mud collect in my boots and the sweat drain from my face. I let hunger starve my body for days if only it'd rouse some answers.

Nothing.

So I made my way back to the castle and washed the dirt off my face. My footsteps echoed off the marble floor, echoed my emptiness. Was this it? Was this the fate I'd been condemned to? Maybe. But I mustn't accept it, must I? Maybe.

I returned to the library to marvel once more at its size. I could barely see the end of it when standing at the door. But there was nothing left here for me now. I'd read every book, every scroll, every letter that graced even the highest shelf. I'd climbed the ladders and scaled the walls, all to obtain that sweet, sweet knowledge. For what? So unsatisfying. I strode inside and collapsed on the floor in exhaustion. My legs ached with pain, and yet there were no chairs here, only books. I'd done all my reading on the icy marble floor, never even thinking to bring a seat from elsewhere. Maybe it was a symbolic thing. I didn't even care anymore.

I closed my eyes. The darkness was welcome; loved, even. I had nothing but love for oblivion, but the void did not contain myself, it contained the machines, and I wanted nothing but to be free. And yet was there even any point? If I did find the truth, the reason, the answers, will I then finally be happy? Perhaps the human experience was built not on satisfaction, but on the mindless pursuit of one obsession after another, curling down a spiraling fractal that never found itself. But how would I know? I was nothing but a single human alone in the world. Perhaps my insanity had finally caught up to me. Perhaps this was all but a nasty dream.

"Human."

I jumped to my feet, startled. At the door stood one of the machines; steel muscle, silicon mind. His name was Shard, and he was the greatest of them all. Powerful in strength, but that was not his skill—it was his intelligence the others feared. Why? I don’t know. But fear is in the same in all minds both man and machine. "Yes?"

"Walk," he told me, his red eyes flickering. I noticed now that they were cracked. His entire body seemed broken, actually, and covered in what appeared to be rust, or perhaps blood. They very same substance that had covered the needles. Strange. Frowning, I slowly walked towards him, careful not to make any sudden moves. Shard was known for intermittent violence. "Yes?"

Shard stared at me, his metal face unmoving. Clasped in his hand was a loaded pistol. My eyes widened, and yet I still stepped forward, drawn as if by some ephemeral compulsion.

"Shard, no—please—"

Shard smiled, and his smile broke me. I had never seen the machines smile. "Follow me, human. I have something beautiful to show you."

_____________________

Boy, this is probably the most experimental any one of my work has ever been. If you're curious, this was inspired by one of HP Lovecraft's short stories, which you can find here: http://www.hplovecraft.com/writings/texts/fiction/o.aspx. Of course, this piece is incomplete—the beginning to a longer story I'll be working on over a larger time scale. The reason I don't put out fiction as much as I like to is usually because I like to take my time with it, to stew over every word, puzzle over every phrase, and piece together a narrative like a child pieces together his playtime, with a loving care to every detail. That said, this particular tale doesn't have much left in it, which might surprise you. So many questions still to answer! And some to not. A truly great mystery leaves something to the reader, for them to puzzle over and figure out on their own, even if that something is small and insignificant. I suppose we'll see. Until then, let me know how you liked this. I'd love your feedback. Thanks for reading!

Sitting on a cloud

Sitting on a cloud,
I see the world below me.
Stretching out forever,
Under the sun's good grace.

And here I shall sit,
Waiting till the rain comes.
And takes with it the clouds,
And washes the world anew.

Look now, the sun has risen—
My plight is over, so now I rest.
Rest till the rain comes,
And takes with it the clouds,
And washes the world anew.

___________________________

That was nice, wasn't it? Once again, I must apologize for not posting in so long. I've been insanely busy lately and simply haven't had time to just sit down and write. That said, I have a bunch of stuff I'm working on, so stick around! This is just a fun little poem to hold you over until then. I'll see you soon!

Unity

Summer days like summer nights

See the colors see the sights

Washed out light in sunlight too

Lights my face my skin in two

Colored swans in dancing sea

Far above the canopy

The soul that unites us

The pigment that divides us

Reminds us who we want to be

Who are you, why do you cry

Your color doesn't make you try

A blind man doesn't want you to

Tear the book the page in two

Black or white in mindless rage

See the eyedrop in the sage

Your image in the water

Does it beg you to slaughter

A man for his righteous wage

Summer days like summer nights

Feel the colors feel the sights

The looming shade like sunlight too

Don't let it tear your heart in two

The birds still sing in the tree

Feathers of every race and creed

The song resembles unity

Does it anger, does it kill

Or remind you who you want to be?

Dungeons and Daggers

I stare at the dagger, the sun's cold light creeping up on me in the fearful cracks of the stone walls, my silver breath frosting the blade, like the silver spirits trapped inside the women and children, men and mages of this forsaken dungeon. At least there is a window, even if it remained pathetically small. The enticement and hope on the children's faces are like knives to my heart. The ghosts just grumble, but even they know, as well as the dagger, that there was Something about this year, and it wasn't good.

Something. It echoed in my heart, the glimmering, glistening word that whispered of change, which perhaps was the prison of my own self. Since the defeat of the king, of my country, the people, since the survivors had been dumped in the castle dungeon to die, Something slept. The humans aged and went old, leaving behind naught but young men and children, young ones who did not understand what was happening to their tender lives. And then they too grew old, and their children now stared at me, the one they considered immortal, the one with the dagger. They hoped for Something. Hope. Hope sapped their souls like death. Something.

"If the Dagger does not answer, trouble not you," the old man whispered. The oldest man, who had survived for more than two centuries. Old when it started and old when it shall end. No one knew how he did it, not even me, and no one remembered a time he was young. He rested his frail hand on my shoulder now, and I felt the toils it had been through. "We shall try again, next year. Nothing more can be done."

"I don't know." My voice is a mere whisper of myself. "I can feel it from the blade, but it does not answer. I feel—"

I can't say the word. It catches in my throat, like phlegm on a cold day. Something.

The children continue to stare at me eagerly, but the adults have given up hope. They don't want it to sap their souls anymore—they want to be free of this gate and continue onto the road, even if death is the toll. I don't blame them. 

"You said that last year, you and your forsaken dagger," one of them growls. A ghost breathes down my neck, but that doesn't help me. The Eve is not past yet, and the dagger has still to pass judgment. I take a deep breath, commanding my soul to obey me, and not to become another wandering specter.

"It's not over yet. There is yet judgment to be given. We must still hope. For—"

Something.

__________________

Thank you for reading! This was just a little something I wrote several years back, and since it's fairly decent and I haven't posted in a while, I figured I might as well put it online. I do have several pieces of new writing I'm working on, however, so I hope that I can be more regular with my posts in the future. I'll see you again soon!

Water on the Windowsill

In the midst of hail,

When the snow blazes,

There's water on the windowsill.

There's water on the windowsill.

Now spring has come,

A green cross,

Bearing sun

And shining sky.

There's water on the windowsill.

Summer looms,

The flowers bloom,

The grass has wilted.

There's water on the windowsill.

Fall brings with it the rainbow,

And the nauseous colors

That hang on the wind.

Still, there's water on the windowsill.

There's water on the windowsill.

And winter again,

With the ice,

And the white rain.

Damn.

There's water on the windowsill.

Now the sky is gone,

The ground opens.

I see the devil,

And he too remarks,

On the water on the windowsill.

The water on the windowsill.

Dead night,

Open day.

There's water on the windowsill,

There's water on the windowsill.

There's water on the windowsill.

 __________________

Okay, I know I said poetry is something I dabble in only occasionally, but I've been taking a course on poetry recently, so the definition of "occasionally" might inflate a bit. Anyhoo, I hope you enjoyed that—I'm afraid I don't have anything philosophical to say this time, so hopefully my verses will talk for me. I had a lot of fun with this one, and I'm actually quite proud of it.  Leave me your thoughts in the comments below. Thanks for reading!